It’s 2:00 p.m. on the third Friday in October, so I head into McKay’s. I give Mr. McKay a salute with two fingers to my temple as he grabs his coat and heads to the front door. 

“Dean,” he greets me, clears his throat, and then returns the salute. “Back in a half hour.”

Even though the shop is a maze of shelves, with books stacked on the floor, it is meticulously clean. As always. Careful not to disturb any of the books in the aisles, I make my way to the reading area at the back of the shop. It’s the same as it was a decade ago: two overstuffed reading chairs with a brick fireplace between, bookshelves surrounding it like walls. Twin stained-glass windows are placed on either side of the fireplace, and when the sun hits them just so–as it does now–jeweled light filters into the space, transforming it into something magical. 

I settle into a chair and pull out my worn copy of 1984. There is a chill in the air, so I reach over and twist the knob that sparks the fireplace to life. I’ve read this novel a dozen times, and find myself holding it for comfort, staring at the pages without reading. 

Finally, the door to the back storeroom opens, and Sophie comes out, her arms full of books to shelve. She’s humming to herself, her curly hair attempting to stay put in a bun, a pencil stuck over one ear. Her sudden appearance brings a smile to my face, but she hasn’t noticed me yet, so I keep my gaze toward my book. When she steps closer, I can hear that she’s humming “My Favorite Things,” from The Sound of Music.

She finally notices me and smiles shyly. “Hi.”

“Hello.”

She sees the cover of my book and her smile grows. “1984. My favorite since I read it in tenth grade.” 

I almost say I know but quickly switch to “Yeah?” 

“The ending, though, that killed me. The way they broke Winston…” She stops and looks at me, eyes wide. “I really hope you’ve read it before, and I didn’t just spoil the ending.” 

Her cheeks spot with pink to match her shirt, and I feel a warmth that makes me smile. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve read it at least a dozen times. The ending killed me too.” 

She sighs with relief and puts a hand to her heart. “I really hate it when someone spoils a good book.”

“Crisis averted. Dystopians are my favorite. You?”

“Definitely!” She sets the stack of books on the coffee table and sits in the other chair. “Along with horror, sci-fi, magical realism, anything really. I mean, my dad has owned this shop since I was a baby, so I’ve always had my pick.”

“Must be nice.”

She gestures to the books between them, “I’ll even give these new ones a try.”

I look at the stack of books: Big Little Lies, Station Eleven, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, We Were Liars, All the Light We Cannot See. I bite back the urge to tell her that most of these have been made into streaming shows and movies. I already confused her by making that observation once before.

I pick up the thread of her favorite books. “Magical realism–Gabriel Garcia Marquez?

“Of course.”

“Alice Hoffman?” 

She sinks back into the chair and sighs. “Perfection. Everyone knows Practical Magic, but my favorite will always be The River King.”

  “That is a really good one, I can see why you like it.” I desperately want to tell her about how much I enjoyed Hoffman’s new one Invisible Hour. 

“Hey, if you like Hoffman, you should try Sarah Addison Allen. I think we have Lost Lake on display by the front.” She jumps up to get it before I can stop her. 

“It’s ok, I’ll grab a copy on my way out.” I try to think of something to say that will keep her from leaving.

“My dad always tells me that I should focus on selling books as much as I talk about them. Be right back.” She disappears around the bookshelf that separates the nook from the rest of the store. I don’t know if she’ll return; sometimes she doesn’t. 

I fidget with my book, then look at the time on my phone. 2:13. Only ten more minutes.

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the picture of my newborn daughter. She’s named Anabel, her blond hair and bright blue eyes a contrast to being named after a poem by Poe. I really wanted to show Sophie; she would be delighted in the name. There was a time when I hoped for a daughter with curly caramel hair and soft brown eyes. 

Thankfully, Sophie appears again, walking slowly around the bookshelf, looking confused. “I could have sworn we kept Lost Lake by the front door.” She sinks into her chair, one finger to her temple, something she always did when she felt a headache coming on. 

She looks at me with an apologetic smile and shrugs. “Hey, what’s that?” 

“Anabel, my daughter.” I hold out the picture and she studies it. 

She looks from the picture to me, comparing it with my dark hair and eyes. “Adorable. She must take after her mother.”

I laugh. “She does.”

“Wait, Anabel? Did you name her after Poe?”

“Yes. It took some convincing, but I got my wife to agree. She was hesitant at first, but her mother’s name is Ann, so she finally agreed if I promised to say that’s where we got the name.”

“Not a Poe fan?” 

“She likes Poe just fine but knows how mean kids can be in school.” 

“I always loved the name Anabel.” She fidgets with her necklace, a golden heart shaped locket. “It’s weird. You remind me so much of my boyfriend. But, like, older of course.” 

“Hey, I’m only 27.”

“Yeah, older. No offense.” 

I laugh. “Right, I forgot. When I was your age, I would have thought I was old too.” 

I glance at my phone. Two minutes. 

She continues to fidget with her necklace. “He gave me this necklace a couple months ago.” She holds it out and shows me her initials carved into the locket. 

She opens the locket and shows me the picture inside. I’m looking at a miniature version of my senior picture. 

One minute. 

“It’s so strange how much you look like him…” She closes the locket and looks up at me, her face growing pale. 

“What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s Dean.” 

“No way! His name is Dean too.” She’s still gripping the locket. “What are the odds?”

She grows paler, a whisp of fog over a lake. 

“Bye Sophie.” 

She opens her mouth to speak, but her image shivers like a heat wave until finally her light blinks out and she’s gone. 

I take a breath and rub a hand over my face, putting the picture back in my jacket pocket. At least I got to show her Anabel. Sometimes Sophie is not as vibrant as she was today. Sometimes she doesn’t show up at all. I sit until I hear the key in the front door, then make my way to the front as Mr. McKay takes his place behind the register.

“How was she today?” 

“She was good. Really good. I showed her Anabel.”

“Did she get a kick out of her name? She always told me she was going to name her future children after literary characters.”

“She noticed the name. I’m sure she loved it. She was so clear today.” 

“Sophie always did love the holidays. Remember how joyful she seemed last December?”

“I remember.”

“She’s always so sluggish in the summer though. Always hated the humidity.”

 “Right, she always did. I wonder if she’ll skip next summer again like she did this year.”

 “Or, if she’ll stop showing up at all one day…” He clears his throat, then takes a deep breath. “Tell your mom and dad I said hi.”

“Sure thing.”

“See you next month?”

I glance behind Mr. McKay to the framed picture of Sophie. She’s seventeen, her long curly hair a halo around her head, soft eyes smiling out. I know that hidden behind the picture is a news story from The Springfield Times dated December 23rd, 2014. I have it memorized, down to the last line: She leaves behind her father, Liam McKay, owner of McKay and Daughter Books. 

“Yep, see you then.”